


Community Service

by T00tis3



Category: IT
Genre: M/M, Richie and Stan are best friends you COWARDS, Stan and bill are project partners because I said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/T00tis3/pseuds/T00tis3
Summary: This story is basically #savethebirds ngl





	1. The NutHatcher

A shadow of an animal sprawled upon the desktop. Filtered light cast the shape of a bird, one who was tall and slim. Its beak sprouted from its head like a broken bone, forming an uneven curve downwards. To others, this bird would have seemed as valuable as the various pigeons that search for crumbs on the New York Subway, but to Stan Uris, this was exactly the kind of bird he was looking for. Stan nervously fumbled with his pencil, feeling the sharp curves of the wood prick his skin impatiently. His eyes darted from the board to the bird, not sure which one they wanted to focus on. The teacher? Boring. The Bird? Less boring. Stan looked over, his brown eyes being washed over by the beautiful ocean blue of the bird's coat. Its feathers were fluffed, and soft lighting was offered to highlight their light texture. Stan stared a little bit longer; his pencil subconsciously moving across the paper with mixed scribbles. The bird chirped, unaware of its watcher. Stan smiled, but his all famous frown lines deepened on his cheeks as he felt someone poke his shoulder. His head snapped to face Richie, who was flashing his dumb, pearly whites like he always did. 

"You got a disease, Stan? You're usually the one telling ME to pay attention in class", Richie whispered. He propped his chin up on his left elbow, continuing on, "Is it cooties? I wouldn't doubt it, have you seen that Greta girl? Walking STD dispenser, i tell ya" Stan glared at Richie, his eyes forming slits. He looked at Richie through his half closed eyes, his shit-eating grin drawing his attention. "No Richie. Its not cooties. That's not even a real disease". Richie opened his mouth to protest, but Stan turned away. He was looking at the board, his eyes drawing and making connections to various writing and shapes. He studied the teacher's nice handwriting, admiring how the words dipped into sweet little curves onto the white background. Stan glanced over at the side window once more, only turning his head this time around. His curls fell over his face in neat chunks, and loose strands of hair blocked his vision. He peered through nevertheless, but unfortunately, saw that the bird was gone. His lips thinned, outlining what would become yet another solemn frown. Richie looked over at Stan in the corner of his eyes, and now twisted his body towards his friend. "You know whats better than one blue clues looking bird? MANY blue clues looking birds. C'mon, after school, we'll go watch birds.", Stan's eyes flicked over to Richie, a stare piercing through the curls that bounced helplessly across his forehead, showing reaction to Richie's suggestion, but obviously making it a negative one. His eyebrows knitted together, like linking two train carts with a chain. "Last time I took you to watch birds with me you yelled at a red cardinal to get off your lawn", he remarked. His voice was cold, and sharp, but held no edge, like a dull kitchen knife. Richie pretended to let this dull kitchen knife cut into him, and a hand flew up to his chest. His palm slapped against where his heart would be, and his mouth mocked a perfect 'o'. "Me? Never".

A student sitting across from them turned to face the two, eyeing each of the boys with unnerving suspicion. Stan fumbled with his knuckles, guiding his thumb nervously across the ups and downs of his clenched fist. "Could you two be quiet?", He whispered. His hair was pulled into an uneven bun at the back of his head; loose strands sticking to the nape of his neck. The skin of the boy's nose had folded over, flesh upon flesh, each wrinkle showing a new wave of pure disgust. Richie seemed to notice the man bun as well, and of course, his cheeks were swelled red. A hand instinctively found itself covering his mouth, as it always did when Richie found himself on the verge of laughing at an inappropriate time. "Some of us want to graduate", the boy with a bun finished, and twisted back around. Stan forced his hands onto the sides of his paper, the bird no longer on his mind. Being called out by a fellow student-- how embarrassing! Stan worked that day's notes onto his paper. He smoothed out any crinkles with his thumb, as if the crinkles themselves were big, awful zits that needed popping. No matter how Richie poked and prodded for Stan's attention, he did not get it. He was working now, and way too embarrassed to do much else. His cheeks flushed a bright crimson, but the color soon melted away with the sound of a bell. He fumbled with the straps of his backpack, his white palms standing like a sore thumb against it's olive covering. He was bent over the bag, scrambling for a strong hold on the zipper. The only thing that pulled him from his rushed trance was the slamming of his binder, causing Stan to look up. Richie closed the binder, and Stan saw his grip. The same grip that screamed in Tozier's god awful Irish cop voice, "you're going to have to chase me for this binder, son, yes you are". 

"Give that back, Richie. Do you want to see the birds or not?". Richie grinned the grin of all grins. The grin that either was god or could kill him. The same grin that silenced all other grins. Stan knew that grin very well, but this was a grin you didn't want to know. He knew you, but if you were lucky enough, you didn't know him. But, of course, Stan being the lucky go getter he is, knows this grin very well. Too well, if you asked him. He hated that grin. Richie continued on, his Irish cop impression as flimsy and delicate like a piece of scrap paper in the wind, "Oh, we'll see those birds all right" He slowly slid off his seat, his converse sneakers making a squeaking noise once it hit the tiled floor, "Why yes, we''ll see those birds. Infact, I'm going to MAKE you see those birds. Those there fine birds. I knew yee, son, and i know you weren't going to see those there birds. You've been avoiding the courtyard for WEEKS, yes you have. I'm goin to make ya look fear in the face and--", but before he could finish, Stan started after him. His hand lunged for his binder, but missed. His fingers grazed over the silver lining, and that was enough to get him going. Richie pushed countless students away as he ran, and Stan chased after him. He was polite, saying excuse me and sorry as he impatiently slipped through the cracks the crowd made. Richie wasn't as generous, as he ran on he decided there simply wasn't time for such a thing. the colorful crowd flashed in dull blondes, reds, and browns as Stan chased Richie. As he continued further, the crowd died down to the point where only a few passing teachers, ready to lock up their classrooms, were giving Stan the occasional no running warning. "Richie!", Stan called after him. The other boy slipped away into the afternoon's blinding light, leaving only a little crack for Stan to follow him through. He slammed his body into the door, the skin on his elbow being painfully stretched as he followed it open. His head looked from the left to the right to the left again. Where could he have gone? Stan heard a noise. His body twisted to the sound, the soles of his shoes digging into the hard earth below; just in case he had to start running for Richie again. But what he found was a lot... nicer. And smelled a lot better, too. 

It was a small bird, perched up on the lowest branch of a native pine. Its legs hugged the branch tightly, as if it were a small toddler hugging its favorite blanket. It's beak opened and closed, and for what Stan assumed, it was calling for it's children to return home. His eyes glossed over the bird fondly, his mouth agape in utter awe of the incredible creature before him. "Whoa...", A soft whisper sounded. Stan's eyes traced the sound, and what do you know-- the man, the myth, the legend-- Richie Tozier was behind him, admiring the same bird he was. Silently yet quickly, Stan stole back his binder from Richie's greedy, selfish hands. The transaction was quick, so quick in fact, that Richie didn't even notice. Stan smiled, both at the bird AND the fact that Richie seemed blissfully unaware of what he had just done. He opened the binder, flipping through notes of various subjects before he came across a blank sheet of paper.Stan reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a slim, purple pen. He began to document his finding, his eyes continuously flipping some the notebook paper to the, what Stan identified as, Nuthatch. Sunlight filtered through its thin coat, sending a distorted shadow onto the grass below. Rich walked forward, his footsteps as bold and loud as a pin dropping to a marble floor in a quiet room. Stan flashed a warning with his harsh stare, but Richie didn't seem to notice. Blissfully unaware-- just like always. 

"Come on, lets get a closer look", He called; his arms carelessly flailing at his sides as he walked on. Pot holes littered the ground where Richie was headed; each hole filled with moist leafs that curved to hug the dirt's walls. He bent down before one, looking into it with a sense of curiosity. The ground looked like a Whack the Beaver machine, as deep holes scattered the ground precariously. They had tried to refill them in December, but the school could never find the money to. Or, that's what they told parents when upset parents complained. Only one kid had fallen into the holes once, and that apparently wasn't enough for the school to care. It was a late afternoon when it happened, and some kid named Edward fell into one of the pot holes. Or was it Eddie? Stan wasn't really paying the attention he should have to his dad when he was telling him the story two months back at the dinner table. They were eating spaghetti that night-- and Stan knew that for sure-- but couldn't quite grasp the name of the boy. Whatever his name was, when he earned a sprained ankle from the fall, his mother was PISSED. So pissed, in fact, she threatened to sue the school, and it went so far that she almost got away with it. Stan didn't remember much of the story, but he did remember his dad telling him to be careful-- to not go near the pot holes. So Stan listened, and didn't go near the pot holes. That's why he hadn't really hung out here like he used to. He missed the courtyard, sure, but he wouldn't risk disobeying an order from his father. But here he was, doing exactly that. Stan watched Rich carefully, inching closer in case he had to save him from a fall.

"Don't get too close, Richie"

"Why? Afraid the boogieman will come out and grab me?"

"Richie--"

"Considering how long these pot holes have been here? Jesus is more likely to grab me then the boogieman. But then again, you ARE jewish, so maybe that is sc--"

"RICHIE!"

Richie looked up, confused at first, but following Stan's eyes nevertheless. They weren't on him, but rather, on the bird. It's wings flapped wildly around it, balancing its weight with only one leg on the pine branch. With wide eyes, and a quick adjustment of the glasses, Richie realized the bird was about to fall. Stan's hair was beginning to stick to his forehead, nervous sweat drawing the curls inwards. Richie glanced at his friend, who seemed to be frozen in place, and back at the bird. He would have to be the one to do something. "Oh fuck oh god oh shit!" The bird fell, and Richie scrambled to his feet. He lunged toward the Nuthatch, offering his cupped palms as a soft pad to break the little bird's fall. His elbows were arched, and his eyes were sharp, only to be softened once he caught the bird. The brown Nuthatch fell gingerly onto his grasp with a THUMP. It turned on its side, its previous calls of terror turning into tiny, pleasant peeps. Richie's chest heaved up and down wildly; a ball of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He looked up, smiling nervously at Stan. "Got the little bugger", He remarked, "That sure was a close o--", but as he began to walk towards Stan, to give him the little bugger, Rich tripped over one of the many uncovered pot holes. As he watched his friend fall, Uris's eyes were like two big frisbees. He forced a hand forward, desperately grabbing for something to break Rich's fall. Stan got a hold of his shirt for a split second before his fingers curled in on themselves, overwhelmed by his body weight. Richie's hands flew above his head, in order to protect the bird, and-- WHAM.

Blood trickled down from his nose to the soft grass below, forming a bubbling pool of red. Not even his glasses could make sense of the circles that seemed to spin around Richie, and as he looked around, the circles seemed to morph from sweet little swirls into the mouths of vicious monsters. He breathed in through quenched teeth, but that only seemed to further his pain. Stan seemed to be saying something to him, but no matter how high his voice got, Richie could not hear. Stan's linked arms with Richie, his footing uneasy as he pulled the other boy up. He shifted Rich's body weight onto himself, and as he did, he could feel the other painfully press into his side. No matter, though, as Stan kept him propped up and standing. He walked Richie back towards the door they fled. The same door that lead them out to the courtyard. The same door that caused all of this mess. Tozier looked up to the sky, watching the bird he had just saved merge with the light blue sky. Though Richie could not hear much, he swore he heard a little 'shit' come out of Stan, and he couldn't help but smile, even when the world around him danced and the curtain called his vision to a close.

Stan was lonely. Well, not really, but at school? He definitely felt that way. Richie was under doctor's orders to stay home for at LEAST three days to recover, and who was Richie to deny staying home from school? "Sorry, Stan the man", he remembered Rich saying on the phone. Uris had called him last night to check up on him, but most importantly, to check to see how many days he would have to spend alone. "I won't be back for at least three days". Stan's heart seemed to deflate, only letting out a small "oh" in response. The phone line went silent, and Richie could hear Stan's shaky breaths on the other end."Ay, thats just the doc's orders, doc", he tried to cheer him up, now taking on the voice of Looney Tune's beloved Bugs Bunny. Stan cracked a smile, and he knew Richie was smiling too. He sighed, "See you later, Richie", and after earning a monologue that falsely passed as a goodbye, he hung up the phone.

Now he was in class; the same class he and Richie shared. He looked over to where Richie sits, his absence hugging his throat like strong perfume. He felt it loom over him like the dark cloud Stan often got on his darkest days. Stan was disappointed, but not surprised to see it there. Stan didn't have many friends, and to be separated from his best friend? He pondered it over last night-- going through 10 million different thoughts hanging over his mind like thick mist after a rainstorm. This would be fine! Stan needed a break from Richie anyways. Stan liked to be alone, so three days alone seemed like heaven! three days alone seemed great! But these were all lies. Uris's head hung low, casting a solemn shadow over today's paperwork. He had Rich's neatly folded against his; already prepared to take it to him after school. The teacher was currently droning on about something Stan was only half listening to. Something about a report.. a project...partners... WAIT. Stan almost snapped his own neck trying to sit upright. If Richie wasn't here, who would be his partner? He was fully awake now, and fully listening. "...Please try to keep it PG-13, and if you can't find any ideas on your own, come to me and i'll help you figure something out. No more than two to a group". The sound of scooting chairs mingled with the pleasant and happy whispers of the class, and before Stan could even look around to see if he knew anybody, almost everybody was paired up. Everybody but one. A boy-- a tall boy-- with brown hair sat next to him. His hair was straight, and seemed to overlap like waves into a surprisingly neat fashion on his head. His eyes were a light shade of blue, which contrasted against Stan's own deep, brown ones. The boy's arms were folded, his inner torso closed off, as if to hide something, but nevertheless cracked a smile for Stan.

"Hi. I'm Bill"


	2. Yellow Tape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason? I feel like this is the downfall of my writing but I literally cannot stop? This took me like, a weekend in write? What am I ON— but oh well I hope it’s still enjoyable nevertheless 😔🤟

Stan looked over. He blinked once-- and then twice. His face no longer held the expression of a boy, but rather, the expression of a tired, middle aged man. Stan traced Bill's outline with a single glance, and looked up to meet his eyes. He didn't dare stare any longer, so he averted his focus back to his paperwork. For a long while, Bill stared back. He kept his mouth shut, not bothering to interrupt Stan through his whole weird i stare at you and you awkwardly stare back at me cycle. His lips were zipped, and for a long time, Bill thought that was how Stan was, too. He didn't say anything for a long while, and he was sure it would remain like that for even longer. But in all honesty, he didn't mind the silence. It meant he didn't have to speak much, and that was good for O' stuttering Bill. "Stan", he finally said, keeping his voice low, "My name is Stan". Bill's lips stretched into a polite smile; soft dimples kissing each cheek. "S-Sorry f-fuh-for the i-i-inconvenience, but it l-uh-looks like you're my partner, n-now". Stan's posture shifted as a wave of recognition flicked in and out of his mind like a dying light bulb. That stutter... he had heard it before. It was unique to Derry's infamous stuttering Bill, so unique that you could compare it to a thumb print. Stan was surprised he hadn't recognized it sooner. It was a memory hidden behind smudged glass, the kind of glass that contained a thick exterior but a brittle, dirty inside, yet, it was a good memory. One of the few good memories Stan had stashed away in the brain that Richie could have sworn was a 'knockoff version of a filing cabinet'.

It was early December; around the time where frost would begin to layer on top of your car's trunk, or what Stan better knew as, around the time all the birds would head South for the winter. His legs dangled from the park bench, but they remained stiff, even when the harsh, winter wind pushed against them. His bird book sat in one hand, and his binoculars in the other. The air was crisp, and blowed against the pages gently. Occasionally, the wind would gain way over one of the pages, and it would flip over. Stan was always quick to put it back, afraid he might lose his place. He raised his binoculars to align with his eyes; sometimes catching a glimpse of a few passing robins. Stan was watching a rather small bird with a brown coat when someone blocked his view. He looked up, annoyed at first, but found himself with sulking shoulders and zipped lips. It was Bill, but of course, he didn't KNOW it was Bill. At the time, he hadn't introduced himself, and for a long time after that, Stan would refer to him as Bird Boy. Not very mature, he knew, but after the kindness Bill had shown him, he found it would be rather rude to not give him a name. "H-Hi", the boy spoke, his smile slightly leaning to one side. "D-do you mind i-i-if i s-suh-sit here?", he pointed to the seat besides Stan. He shook his head, awkwardly scooting over to make room for Bill. The other boy sat down, his legs also dangling over the edge, but not as stiff. They swung unevenly, picking up crisp gushes of winter air as they moved. Uris's nostrils seemed to crack under the pressure of the cold air, but that pain didn't compare to the awful silence that followed Bill's arrival. Bill seemed to feel this tension too, as Stan recalled him saying, "W-W-Whatcha doing?". Stan nervously fingered the pages of his book, but was careful not to bend them. "Watching birds", His reply was short and sweet. Bill leaned foward, his elbows propped up on his knees. "Birds?", his smile grew, "I k-kuh-know this m-may sound a luh-little weird, b-buh-b-but i l-like to draw birds". Stan's binoculars lowered, his eyes no longer on the birds. "Weird?", Stan found himself sharing Bill's smile, "I don't think that's weird". Bill sat up, unraveling his arms from the wraps on his backpack. He brought it around, and Stan could hear several books slide side to side in his bag. After digging around for what seemed like forever, but was realistically probably two minutes, Bill pulled out a sketchbook. A corner on the cover was bent inwards, revealing a tiny signature from the inside. He opened the book, but Stan didn't have time to glance over any of the pages, as Bill's fingers flipped through each page with increasing speed. Several pages later, Bill stopped. This sudden stop grabbed Stan's attention. He looked down, and his mouth dropped. Etched in pencil lead was a beautiful red robin; it's eyes shaded with varying degrees of gray. Each stroke had a purpose, and each stroke brought the piece closer and closer to an elegant reality. Stan didn't know what to say-- all he could do was stare."It's n-uh-not that good, but i-i like to c-cuh-come out here to p-puh-practice, s-sometimes...". A hand slithered nervously to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a way he hoped would calm his nerves. Stan couldn't believe what he had heard. The bird picture was beautiful! it was stunning! it was wonderful! But, out of this deep sea of thoughts, Stan could only manage to touch the surface with his reply, "I think its nice". Bill looked away, but if Stan squinted, and he meant REALLY squinted, you could see the smallest hint of a red flare gathering at his cheeks. And with that, all that previous tension had turned into a comfortable conversation, much like the kind of conversation long-time friends had."T-Thanks. Y-Yuh-You're the f-first to think t-that." Stan didn't know how to react to that. His eyes went up down, left right, trying to find something-- anything-- that could help him think of a reply, but at the end of it, he sighed. For the first time, Stan decided to follow what his heart told him to do-- not his brain. "Want to watch birds with me?", and Bill looked back to Stan, and his previous suspicions were confirmed. His cheeks were colored a light pink, like soft strokes on an artist's canvas. But Stan wasn't focused on that-- his eyes were drawn to Bill's bright smile. "S-Suh-Sure", he said, and with that, the two sat there, in total, comfortable silence, watching birds together.

"S-Suh-S-Stan?", Bill asked, tearing Stan away from reliving their only shared memory, "Stan?". Stan blinked nonchalantly; finding himself wide eyed. He looked over at Bill. He wondered if Bill had recognized him, too. He wondered--but then the bell rang. Kids were shuffling in their seats, desperate to get their backs and go home. Stan was sure Bill was one of those people, and since he had to give Richie his paperwork later, who was he to hold him back? Though, in all honesty, he wanted to do exactly that. As he packed, he started to wonder again. He wondered what it would be like to have that kind of confidence-- y'know-- the kind of confidence to do whatever you'd like. The kind of confidence that you get from order, but from your order, and no one else's. He was sure, if he had that kind of confidence, he would have stayed. Stayed with Bill, to be exact. But Stan found himself pushing these thoughts away, because they were dangerous. VERY dangerous. He couldn't think like that, and he most certainly could not question the natural order of things. Some people were meant to be leaders, and some were not. He was not, and it was not in his right to question something like that. Lost in his thoughts, Stan felt something slip from his fingers. Papers scattered across the floor, bits of dust and dirt already sticking to the pages. "shit", Stan hissed, and pushed himself off his stool. He frantically worked to bring the fallen papers back into the nice, neat little stack he had them in before. Sometimes, notes would slip from the hand he held them in, and other times Stan could feel his fingers dig into the parchment and he would flinch. GOD he hated crinkles, but more than that, he hated DIRTY things, and the floor was DIRTY. His heart rate picked up, so much so, that his usual peach skin had turned a soft pink. His eyebrows were narrowed, tightly sown together without care. His curls were messy, his thoughts were messy, EVERYTHING was m-- but then someone touched his hand.

He looked up, his once heavy breathing hitched with such suddenness that Stan almost gave himself whiplash. "Y-You need h-help?". Bill was crouched down in front of Stan, his remaining paperwork held in a gentle grip in his left hand. He extended his hand outward; the gesture a welcoming one. "Thanks...", Stan said, locking eyes with Bill and holding the stare. Silence followed, only broken by the obnoxious shuffle of the paper exchange. Bill's warm hand was still on Stan's cold one, and together, their touch evened out to a nice luke warm. His hand fled from the scene in butchered movements nevertheless, all the more aware of Stan's eyes on him. Stan's lips moved, as if to say something, but for whatever reason, he kept his mouth shut. Bill was the one, yet again, to bring life to the stiff atmosphere around them, "I-I'll g-guh-give you my a-a-a-ddress if y-yuh-you want to cuh-come over and w-work on the project." Bill helped Stan collect the last pieces of paper and then got up, handing back over to his seat. He pulled out his bag-- the same bag Bill was carrying when he meant him-- and found a spare sheet of paper. He pressed two fingers to one edge, tearing it, and then promptly bringing out a pencil. His hand was steady-- purposeful-- seemingly contradicting the very way he talked. Black lead stained the end of his fingers by the time he was done, but either didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. "H-Here. D-Don't cuh-come after 8, t-t-though", Bill smiled the same way a little boy would after telling a good joke, "U-U-Unless you want to s-s-stay for d-duh-dinner. A-and trust m-me, you d-d-don't want to d-do that". Uris got up, watching as pecks of crumbled marble and dust fell from his tan jeans. He smoothed out the creases, going over them several times before he was finally satisfied. His eyes were preoccupied with his pants, or at least that's what he told himself. He was averting his glaze, too scared to meet Bill's. The faint sound of traffic outside seemed to howl within the school walls, as if calling out for Stan to say something. anything. His hand crossed Bill's, hesitantly taking the slip of paper from him. For a split second, their fingers touched, and sticky heat seemed to melt From Bill's palm into Stan's. It was nice contrast to his usual chill-- but he would never say that aloud. "I'll come over", he agreed. A moment of silence passed between them before he added, "for the project, of course". As soon as Stan mustered the courage to look up, Bill looked away. "Yuh-Y-Y-Yeah. of course". They stood in silence; that same, awful silence Stan he experienced before when he and Bill just met. They stood-- toes pointed towards one another-- but never saying a word. The air shared the same stale taste as an abandoned house; the same abandoned house you would find in a poorly directed horror film, with the porch all beaten up and with wilting weeds that found refugee in the cracks. Stan breathed through his nose-- finding the bitter taste to be unbearable. Bill also seemed to tire of the same odd stale air.

"S-See you l-later then?"

"Yeah. See you around, Bill"

A pause.

"W-When do y-y-you p-plan to c-come over?"

Another pause followed. Stan was thinking over his answer with care. His teeth pulled at his bottom lip, causing the skin to roll back in thin sheets. "Five. Or Five Thirty. I have to take Richie his things first."

Bill cocked an eyebrow, which Stan expected, as Bill didn't know Richie, but as Stan did NOT expect, the eyebrow fell, and so did the possibility of any further questions. In a short-- VERY short moment-- Stan felt something ping inside of him. It was as if the brittle hand of his grandmother had wrapped around his heart, long fingernails tearing into it and all, and gave it a harsh squeeze. He was sure silence would soon return; rearing its head maliciously around the corner, and this time, he wasn't sure they would recover from it. Stan wanted this conversation to last, but as his eyes followed the big hand on the classroom clock, he knew that wasn't going to happen. It only 4:00 p.m., but a cloud of blended purples and oranges began to bleed in clumped strokes across the sky.

"A-A-Alright. S-See you at f-fuh-five."

Stan nodded, confirming what Bill already knew, before reaching out for his bag. He got a grip firm on the handle, and tossed it around his back. Stan moved past Bill, but not in a way you would in the halls. It was like Red Riding Hood going around the sleeping big bad wolf; his feet were light, and his body curved to put a space about a foot long in between them. He walked past Bill, the door, the hall, and soon the entrance; the same entrance Stan had followed Richie through a day prior. He was surprised when he found himself by the bike rack-- he didn't remember the journey to the rack at all. Stan shrugged it off and put his backpack in the bike's carrier. His hands tightly wrapped around the black handles of his bike; releasing it from its time between iron bars. He kicked back the stand that was holding it upright. The tires slightly wobbled; picking a fight with gravity to stand on its own. Stan tried his best to balance it, but his focus was no longer on the bike. Soft whispers from the nearby field carried over to Stan;the wind ruffling the stray strands of hair on his head. His attention was turned, facing the wind's current. His eyes widened, both by surprise and a need for a better view. The place that Richie had fell was now taped off. Yellow caution tape flapped in the wind, sending what sounded like high pitch screams to mingle with the howling air. Two teachers stood in front of the scene; looking over into the pot hole zone like a toddler looking into the deep end of a pool. Stan could not hear them, but he could definitely see their frantic gestures. One adult-- a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties-- had both her arms raised above her head. She looked so frail that Stan was scared that the wind would pick her up and carry her away. Another woman with a white petticoat faced her, nodding about every half second, her grey-blue eyes deep with contemplation but held little to no understanding of what the other was yelling. Stan also had little knowledge of what they were saying, and he wasn't about to find out. Snooping was wrong, and so, Stan averted his gaze back to his bike. He sat it upright, got on, and started to pedal away; letting the breeze help push him to his destination.

"You look like shit", Richie said with a smile. Stan stood at his doorstep; his eyes forced down by heavy, purple bags. "Coming from you", Stan replied, thrusting Richie's homework onto the other's chest. Richie stammered backwards, but grounded himself nevertheless. He pushed up his glasses; feeling the cold plastic travel up his temple. "SOMEONES in a good mood", he said as he ushered Stan past the door's threshold. Though tired from all the pain in the ass pedaling he had just done, Stan smiled. It was a small smile. In fact, it was more like a little upturn of the lips than anything else, but it was a smile nevertheless. Today WAS a good day, to Stan's surprise. He didn't know what had made it so great, but whatever it was, he was glad it happened. 

"Yea. the peace and quiet was nice, for a change"

"Hey-- WWJJD"

"What?"

"What would Jewish Jesus do? He would never treat me like this"

"Good thing I'm not him, then"

Richie laughed at this; throwing his head back with utter amusement. Stan's turned lips unraveled into a full blown smile, and once Richie saw it, he abruptly stopped laughing. His lips now formed a thin line across his face; his expression critical. "Whoa. You've had a REALLY good day without me, huh?", he inquired. His voice was oddly pitched, as if someone had a tight hold on his throat. Stan's smiled faded, returning to his usual neutral. His eyes bore into Richie's, but Richie was averting his eyes-- actively avoiding his gaze. But for what it was worth, Stan DID see something, something small, gloss over Richie's eyes the same way a passing cloud would hover over a field of dead grass. Something was wrong, Stan knew, but damn was Richie doing a good job at keeping whatever WAS wrong a secret. But he decided Richie would tell him if something were TRULY wrong, because that's what friends do, right? Eventually, Stan turned away, his effort for clues a wasted one. He followed the soft ticking of an old clock; the golden hands of the heirloom painted with age. It was currently 4:25 p.m.

"Shit", Stan hissed. He turned to Richie, who would usually find this absolutely, positively hilarious, but today, he sat blank faced, the only sign of life a quick flicker of his eyes. "I've got to go meet Bill. See you tomorrow, Rich". Richie nodded in haste, his shaggy hair flowing left to right in thick lumps. His cheeks, that had a boyish kind of pudge to them, were rounded by a forced smile. "See ya, Stan the man", and with that, Stan got on his bike and petaled off. He threw a final glance over his shoulder to see Richie still standing in the doorway, his previous smile replaced by a small frown.

Stan's knuckles rapped against the door's wood, its hollow interior echoing with each knock. He winced, only regaining his posture once Bill answered the door. He looked tired,as dark wads of flesh draped under his eyes in folds. The sky was now fading; various layers of crimson and orange shining down on the two. It brought light to his face, and into his eyes, but that didn't seem to be the thing that caught him off guard. "T-Thought yuh-you flaked", Bill joked. He smiled, but a certain sadness leaked from each corner like a broken faucet. Stan returned the smile, but it lacked the same undertone. "It's not too late to do so", he joked back. Bill laughed-- and this almost caught Stan off guard. He stood frozen in the doorway of Bill's house, his usual animate curls remaining picture still in the coursing wind. His fingers curled into the soft padding on his palm; his finger tips making temporary indents on his hand. He suddenly felt his body tense up, but his heart had never felt so free. Bill looked back, his laughter dwindling down to a few chuckles here and there. "Y-You j-j-just g-gonna stand there o-or cuh-come i-i-in?", he asked with a quizzical quirk to his left eyebrow. Stan's eyes widened, as if just released from some kind of trance, and complied. He brushed past Bill, who shut the door soon after he entered the house.

As he walked into the house, Stan felt as if all the moisture had been sucked out of his body. From the dark oak that creaked when he walked to the perfectly painted walls-- walls that felt like they haven't felt human touch in several, long years-- Stan felt a cold, and dry feeling wash over him, drying him out like the frayed ends of a teenager who dyes their hair two times a week. The roof of his mouth felt like sand paper, and as he ran a tongue over the deserted spot, Bill threw a glance his way. "T-to my room?", he asked, but it didn't sound much like a question. He was already making his way to the stairs, his left hand carefully draped over the railing. Stan followed without another word, for reasons he thought linked back to his parched throat. They walked to his room in silence, entered his room in silence, and laid on Bill's bed in silence. Stan occasionally looked up during this period of quiet, and if he did it JUST at the right time, he would notice Bill looking over him at the corner of his eye before his iris quickly darted away to stare straight ahead once more. They sat like this for god knows how long before Bill spoke up. "S-So. about the p-project...", He begun.

"Yeah. about that", Stan had finished

"A-a-any ideas?"

"Not a clue"

"Ah"

"W-W-Well we cuh-could do something a-a-about the s-s-seaturtles...", Bill continued

"The sea turtles?", Stan smiled.

"H-Hey! D-Don't look a-a-at me l-l-like that. I-It's a t-totally real p-problem. P-plastic and stuff."

"Plastic and stuff?"

"F-Fuck you, man i-im r-r-really trying h-here."

Bill's arms wrapped around his legs, hugging them close. He smiled-- its previous sadness completely washed away. His ankles were crossed, one over the other, his skin pale against the dark contrast of his blue jeans. Stan looked down, noticing the little bow on his sneakers was lopsided. The sneakers were old and quite faded, with its once bright red fading into a pastel pink. They sat in silence once more, with Stan studying the alluring unevenness of his shoes, and Bill watching on without another word. Bill was desperate to make conversation.

"D-Did you h-h-hear about t-t-the courtyard?"

Stan looked up, a soft pink tinting the tips of his ears. "What?"

"T-T-The courtyard. T-They're finally c-c-covering the p-potholes. T-That Richie kid y-y-you mentioned w-was apparently t-t-the last s-straw."

Stan's mind flash backed to bright caution tape, screaming teachers who's voices carried in the howling wind, and the sound of tires sliding clumsily against the pavement. He didn't notice at the time, but now that Bill was feeding the story to him, he could remember it clearly. The courtyard-- pot holes of all shapes and sizes-- the home of many Derry birds. Yellow tape draped across trees pregnant with moisture, causing the ends to be damp and molding. This should have been good news. After all, they were finally getting rid of those pesky holes! He could finally return to his old routine of bird watching on the courtyard after school in till the stars came up. But, there was a twist.

"T-They're covering u-u-up the potholes by b-b-building a basketball court."

Stan froze, licking his lips to return moisture to them. "A basketball court? Wouldn't they have to tear down the trees to do that?"

"Y-Y-Yea. T-That's what I-I heard a-at least"

He couldn't believe it. They were going to tear down the bird's home? He felt his arms go limp by his sides, falling loosely onto his legs. Stan's eyes darted across the room-- desperately looking at everything but Bill. He saw a stack of CDs scattered across a nearby desk. It's legs were white, but chipped where they met the floor. All classical, no rock. Piles of misc clothes were lumped on the floor, varying from bright reds to the darkest blacks. The room, despite the messiness Stan resented, had a boyish charm that was oddly comforting. It was like Richie's room, but much MUCH more bearable. But right now, he couldn't stand it. It wasn't the wrappers of snickers that hugged the lid of the trashcan, or the disgusting display of dirty clothes on the floor-- it was the birds. He cared for those birds, damn it, and the school was about to destroy an essential home for them as if no one cared. But he cared. Was he a nobody? Stan tried to suppress his anger, like he usually did, but the sudden news was too overwhelming. He couldn't be here any longer. The dry air, the creaky floors, even Bill-- it was all too much.

"I have to go", Stan's voice cut the air like a heated knife on butter, "Sorry. I'll promise to think of something tonight"

His legs worked in suppressed jitters; moving and stopping abruptly. Bill's eyes widened, loosening his grip on his legs to reach for Stan, "H-Hey. A-Are you ok?". Stan didn't answer, he COULDN'T answer. He just kept on moving, making it all the way from Bill's room to the front door before someone grabbed hold on his arm.

His head turned, his usual pale overturning with a boiling red; his body tense. His grip melted into Stan's flesh, but it did not hurt. In fact, he found it oddly... comforting. Much like his room. Everything about Bill, in one way or another, seemed to have this effect. Bill didn't say much, but his breathing was tight, and his eyes frantic. He was searching for something, and Stan felt himself grow small under his intense stare. Those few seconds were neither spoke, just stared, seemed to be the longest of Stan's life. He felt his hands clamp up, and his body strain, but not for the birds. Something deeper than the birds.

Then softly-- even if his speech was rather choppy--Bill spoke, "S-Stan. Look a-at me"

Stan looked away-- he couldn't help it. Everything was so overwhelming "S-Stan", Bill spoke again, "L-L-Look at me".

Finally, he did, and he instantly regretted it. Bill's shaggy hair flopped this way and that-- obviously messy from running after him-- and his icy blue eyes had melted into cushioned snow. Unfiltered light pooled in from a high window to his right, casting a weak orange shadow, much like a caramel melt, over his figure. Everything about this moment was soft, and tender, but Stan's heart was pulsing at an almost dangerous rate. This was like a stage set, cast in artificial lighting, and though the viewers believed it, there was something underneath-- something void of all that warmness. Something void of all the safety Stan held so dearly. But then, Bill's eyes lowered, and he was no longer the director. He was the viewer, watching as this delicate scene unfolded before him.

"I-Its t-t-the birds i-i-isn't it"

A pause. Stan lay shushed, and with it, his heartbeat lowered. His skin went back to its original tint-- clean cut like marble on a counter top-- and slowly watched Bill confirm his own statement.

"I-Im sorry. I-I should n-n-never have b-buh-brought that u-up. I-I know y-you like b-birds."

So he DID remember that day in December; where snow clung to sidewalks in melted sheets, and birds were starting to make their way south. Stan's heart pinged, just like it had at school.

"B-B-But i t-t-think i-i m-might have an idea o-of what tuh-t-to do f-fuh-for the project."

Stan raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘what do you mean?’, but Bill only smiled in return. His hand on Stan's arm lowered, tracing the elbow bone down to his wrist. 

"C-Come on. I-I-I'll show you"


	3. Side by Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to Doja Cat's Say So reverb the entire time while writing this because im 0w0 quirky so pwease enjoy uwu

The previous tension, fear, and anger had settled down. In the air, that same smell of old house had made its way back as the overwhelming smell, drowning all else out. Everything was calm, everything was nice, and as Stan laid on Bill's bed, his left arm propped against one of his decorative pillows, he truly believed that everything was right again. Except for the fact that it wasn't, of course. What the two were going to do about the birds they didn't know, but had spent the last hour planning on that exact thing. Bill had brought up some paper from his dad's office downstairs, and had pinned it in the wall. It was a messy look-- some pieces hung up so tightly that they seemed to be apart of the wall itself, and others barely dangling from the pin.

"W-we'd h-h-have to talk to s-someone. M-m-maybe the p-p-principal?", Bill said. His hands were folded over one another, black marker thick in the creases of his palms.

"Maybe. But we'd have to get more people on our side. I don't think just the two of us are enough to be convincing"

"You're r-right-- what a-a-about a petition? T-t-that's a start."

"Yea. That's a start", Stan agreed. He had so much more to say, but didn't have the guts to do so. So many insecurities, from the tip of his fingers, to the depths of his belly. They were bubbling, swarming, crawling, doing everything and anything to get the best of him. What if no one cared as much as them about this? What if people laughed at them? Not that they didn't do that already, but-- What if? What if this didn't work? What if, What if, What if-- that's all Stan could think about. Bill had been saying something-- but had the same effect as whispering to the person with their music on blast. Plus, a petition? That involved talking. Stan HATED talking-- especially to people he didn't know. Such a thing would seem like his worst enemy, but as he turned that thought over in his head a few times over, he realized it would also be his greatest strength. This was to save his hobby, after all. He looked to Bill, who was still rambling, and stared. He couldn't believe Bill was so willing to help him with HIS hobby. They barely knew each other, yet he was so willing to take action for not his benefit, but Stan's. For Stan's benefit. "But why?", he found himself saying out loud.

Bill turned, stopping mid sentence. Several new doodles were now present on the pages-- ones he didn't notice before in his dream like state. "What?", one of Bill's eyebrows arched, and he looked intently back at his friend. Stan was internally screaming. "Sorry. Was thinking out loud", he waved a hand, his wrist loose and playful as if to say 'no worries, carry on'. The other boy shrugged, returning his careless gesture. It was a comfortable, and safe-- like the kind of thing you did with a long life friend, and NOT a almost complete stranger. Even the air, with its tangy mist of Clorox and old rosewood felt familiar to Stan. It was all tied to Bill. Bill-- the boy who was, and STILL IS rambling-- the boy who was kind to him on a December day-- the boy who is currently shaking Stan to get his attention.

"B-Buh-But do y-you think t-t-that would b-be enough?"

Stan was silent, trying to retrace his steps and find out where they were in the conversation, "What?"

"T-T-the petition. I think i-i-it's the best w-wuh-we got s-so far-- but i'm looking fuh-for a second opinion. R-ruh-rare, i know. W-what do you think?"

He pondered for a moment, considering this through and through. WAS that enough? For kids, maybe. They'd sign anything if you promised to buy them a chocolate chip cookie from the lunch line, but adults?

"We'd probably need more evidence to get people other than students on our side. Plus, if we want to work our school project into this, we can't turn it in without any solid evidence. We'd need to collect some of our own"

"E-E-Evidence? Of what kind?"

"Evidence that tearing down the woods would truly harm the bird community. I know the answer seems obvious, but in the scientific world, you always need something to back it up anyways."

Bill groaned, "I'm n-n-no good at t-this kind of stuff..."

Stan shifted in his spot on the bed after feeling his left foot fall asleep. "We could go to different areas of Derry, and then compare the habitats there to the ones at school to prove that the woods on school grounds are necessary?"

"Wow. T-t-that's... t-that's a-a-actually a really guh-good idea."

"I know, it surprised me too"

Bill's nose scrunched up, a little habitat he picked up from his mother's side of the family, and he smiled, the sun glinting off his pearly whites,"Fuck off". He was sitting next to Stan, leaning back on the railing that lined the foot of his bed. He softly kicked him, his faded sneakers leaving behind dark smudges on Stan's cheek. He only began to laugh once Stan looked up, his eyes closed shut and his fingers frantically working to get the stains off his skin. "You're literally the worse", he shot back, but as soon as he opened his eyes back up, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of Bill tumbling over the edge of the bed in giggles.

"So long, old friend. It was a good run while it lasted. Now: where's your wallet", he continued, peering over the bed. Though he couldn't exactly see it, he definitely heard the fallen solider's laughter rise once more. It was clear, yet warm, like a wine glass fogged from hot breath. But much like glass, a sound, much like what Stanley thought to be the sound of death itself, shattered the glass in mere seconds. What the hell was that? Bill sat up, his pale green eyes of worry scouring hot against his skin. He flinched, his fingertips dancing in circles around the burnt skin, only to find there was no burnt skin at all, but Stan could have swore they were there, lurching in the hidden areas were the skin of his fingers folded in on themselves. "T-Tuh-T-The W-Wuh-Window!", Bill's words slurred together, but not in their usual way. Less confident, and more.... afraid. Something he hadn't heard from anyone yet-- himself included.

All at once, the world around him seemed to spin. Chairs started to sport curves in their legs that they didn't have before, and dull bed sheets started to spiral into a lavish blue Stan had only seen on the boxes of hair dyes without labels. Everything was brighter, but not in the fun way. It was more like at the end of a movie, where the hero arises to a cherry rose sky, made fuzzy by the cast of purple and orange clouds, only to see their efforts were washed, and the bomb they had worked so hard to prevent went off and killed everybody after all. Firecrackers popped along his cheeks, rising only to take a final bow at the tip of his ears. "c-cuh-come on! I'll h-h-h-help you down!", Bill continued on, and didn't wait for a response he knew well enough wasn't coming. His hands fanned against Stan's back, pushing his body forward, but couldn't find it within himself to move. His hands remained frozen, his joints already stinging with the kind of numbness that you hope only exist in movies, but this was real, oh so very real, and Stan could only close his eyes shut and by some will of god or man he didn't care-- he only wished he could will it to end.

The same terrible, TERRIBLE noise arose again, but this time, it was a lot closer. This is what brought Stan to move. He fumbled to rise, almost falling, but regaining balance as Bill held on tightly to his wrist. In another situation, Stan would bat his hand away, his hand swatting the air in a manner his father would call "girly", but he did not. His hand dangled, and from his angle, it was as if his hand and his arm were completely and utterly dislocated. Bill's nails were sure to leave a purplish bruise on his skin, Stan thought, but was left to ponder no longer as Bill hoisted him onto the windowsill. He let go of Stan's wrist, and took to wrapping his arms around his waist instead.

"M-Muh-My parents a-a-are home. Y-Y-You have to go, b-but i can m-m-meet you at t-t-the quarry t-t-tomorrow. f-five thirty?"

Stan nodded, some of his curls spiraling in front of his eyes as he did, and others no longer curls, but rather slick tangles of frizz that latched themselves onto his forehead. He looked away from Bill to scope out the area below and almost had a heart attack right then and there. It was a 10 feet drop if he jumped, and STILL 10 feet if he wanted to climb his way down by the stone that lined the outside of the building. His heart leaped in his chest, seemingly getting stuck in the pit of his throat and making it hard to breath, but then he looked over at Bill once more, hoping to ask for a more logical, SAFER way out of the Denbrough household, but found himself unable to speak when once again met by the distant and wild stare of Bill Denbrough.

Stan looked down more once, more determined than ever to not look back, because god KNOWS what he would do if he had to see Bill like that-- even if it was only once more. His converse meant the wall, their polished surface being scuffed by the rough edges of aging rock, and began to climb his way down. He would give anything to look up at that moment-- to NOT see the 10 feet of nothing but air and night moths below him, but decided the sight above was somehow even worse.

His fingers slipped into creases; his nails weathered by the rough surface of rock. Almost every single one but his left pinky finger was chipped by the time he had made it to the ground. Stan thought he could have laid down on that green and died happy right then and there. He was on the grass! The soft, green WONDERFUL grass! He looked to the road, caught sight of his bike, and began to walk, his arms forming an X across his chest. He looked back once, and silently decided he would never again. The curtains of Bill's room frolicked in the wind, mimicking the way a flowing dress might when a burst of air came up under it. Behind it was two shadows-- One much smaller than the other. They were haunting, and even when they both left, their black figures fading into grey smudges on a wilting, white canvas, Stan could see the sketched outline of where they once were. He shivered, but not by the wind.

He pedaled away as soon as he got to his bike. By wind or by frantic legs he couldn't really tell, but was thankful for whatever gifted him a quick escape. Down the street he rode, smoothly riding down the little hills he crossed from Bill's to his house. Safe from danger, and with no music to fill the void, Stan began to think. He tried to make sense of all the chaos-- of all the hearts in the room that seemed to slam against their own rib cage-- and all the feelings he had when Bill had toppled over the bed into a mess of boyish giggles. Out of the swooping ensemble of gross feelings that followed, he could only identify one. The rush of raw adrenaline, his pounding heart, the way his cheeks were sunken in with a rosy pink-- it was all adding up, the only problem was the fact Stan would never admit to it, Never, ever, EVER.

The next time Stan saw Bill was at the quarry. Two bikes were thrown across the bridge that separated the road and the way down to the waters. One shimmered a stainless steel, the black, bold words of SILVER the only thing matte on the entire bike. The other was rusted, any wording it may or may not of had covered by the unruly grasses that looked like they came straight out of the Barrens. An abandoned bike, he thought, it looks like it hasn't been used it in generations. He was pulling his bike downhill beside him when he caught the sight of Bill making waves with the tip of his toes. He stopped, watching as the waves transformed from fun sized golf balls into gigantic basketballs, but kept going, only to be yet again stopped.

"Ew", Stan cringed, his nose turning upwards in disgust.

"W-What?", Bill turned. He smiled, or rather, smirked. He knew EXACTLY what he was doing by dipping the tips of his feet, WITH HIS SHOES ON, into the water, and Stan didn't like it one bit.

Stan only stared back, and Bill laughed. "That's it. I'm leaving. Forever. Bye. Miss you never", he faked a turn, but was pulled back by soft fingertips that sent kisses up his arms, and evidently, lead to his cheeks.

"L-l-leaving so s-s-soon? M-m-man, i m-m-must be on some kind of r-r-record"

"Better work hard then, Denbrough. Richie's made me leave rooms faster than that"

Bill walked Stan closer to the quarry; to the same spot he was MERCILESSLY dragging his shoes along the quarry's bank. "O-oh yea? W-w-well, not t-t-o discredit y-y-you or a-anything, but f-from w-w-what I've huh-heard, t-this T-tozier guy s-s-s-seems to be QUITE the delight"

"Sorry if i made you think that way"

"No, No. N-n-not from y-you, of course", he looked over at Stan, and he could see quarry water caught in the webs of Bill's eyelashes, "f-fuh-from my friend, E-e-e-eddie. You probably don't know h-him, but you p-puh-p-probably HAVE h-heard of him. He w-was the one with", Bill stopped to make quotation marks with his hands, "t-the mom"

Stan nodded. He remembered well enough. 

"W-wuh-well, apparently a-after R-r-richie got h-home from t-t-the hospital, the s-school brought him a-and his parents in j-j-just to make s-suh-sure they w-w-wouldn't sue", Bill grinned at this, and Stan admired the way his cheeks would cave in to dot two perfect dimples along his smile, "and t-t-they brought E-e-eddie in, j-just in case, because h-he's technically a v-victim of the pot h-holes too."

Bill paused-- biting his lip. His words were starting to slur together again, so he quickened the pace of his story. "A-a-apparently they m-met there, and after it E-e-eddie told me about h-how he thought R-r-richie was gonna muh-mug him for his lunch m-m-money or something because he was f-f-following him around like a lost p-p-puppy. Eddie talks a-a-about him sometimes, and I've h-h-heard all good t-things".

Stan watched in silence as Bill's eyes drooped from pleasant to annoyed, but said nothing. He would talk about it if he really wanted to, wouldn't he? He didn't want to press anything deep on him-- they haven't even known eachother for that long anyway. Nevertheless, something tugged on his heart, something very there and VERY persistent.

"Don't worry, you won't hear many good things from me", he said sarcastically, his voice raising against the rattle of his own heartbeat in his eardrums.

Bill's lips turned upwards to the sky, where everything was blue and nice and fluffy clouds were safe havens for angels, and Stan wondered in that moment why Bill wasn't up there with them; dancing in their silk attire, perfect in almost every way, and no body liked perfect things more than Stan did.

A silence as soft and gentle as mist fell upon them, and for what seemed like an eternity, they watched clouds, Bill tugging lightly on the collar of Stan's outdated button up whenever he saw a cloud that was vaguely shaped like an animal. For the most part, Stan would shake his head, pointing out the horrible abnormalities in the way the beasts in the sky was shaped-- neck too long, five legs-- but one was pretty spot on. It was a turtle, and Stan took heavy note on the way Bill's eyes flashed a fiery green when Stan confirmed that it did, in fact, meet his strict rules and regulations on cloud animals.

"S-suh-speaking of R-richie", Bill had said into the silence. His voice was loud in contrast to the previous silence, making Stan jolt-- and whether he was imagining it he couldn't tell-- making the water below ripple outwards in galloping waves. "I t-t-think we m-muh-might need his help."

When Stan didn't answer, Bill continued, his voice lowered, "W-w-when you l-l-left last night, I did suh-some research on my own and...", he paused, "if we w-w-want to get the s-staff involved with p-p-protecting the woods, we p-p-probably need to m-m-make a presentation. Which w-w-would, as it tuh-t-turns out, i-i-involve..."

Stan frowned, "Talking"

Bill smiled, but it was so forced, he might as well have been frowning with Stan, "Y-yea. T-t-talking. Not e-e-exactly our s-strong suit, i-i-i-is it?"

Silent once fell again, but it wasn't the nice, welcoming mist-- it was the suffocating, thick fog. It was Bill that broke the stillness, as he was so accustomed to doing with Stan.

"Y-Yuh-you t-t-t-think a-after having i-it for so l-luh-long, I would h-h-have taken s-s-speech therap-p-py to fix i-i-it or suh-s-something"

Stan didn't have to ask what he was talking about. "Why haven't you?"

He looked away. He was no mind reader, but Stan knew that some kind of storm was brewing in the mind of Bill Denbrough. Several minutes had passed when Bill had responded; it so thin and fragile that it was somehow almost swept up by the air that seemed oh so still to Stan.

"Parents"

Parents. A single word that was small at first, but as time passed, and glances were passed, it snowballed into the night before, where furniture seemed disfigured in the place of his disorientation. Even when the snowball reached the ground, jam packed with snow and information, Stan could only see the little sticks and stones that jutted out like uneven teeth from it's sides. What were his parents like? Probably not good, as Stan inferred from Bill's tone of voice, and his own damn sense, but were they always like that? If so: What made them that way? And, the most important question of all: How did someone like Bill end up with people like Mrs. and Mr. Denbrough. 

He heard a noise. He turned to see Bill with his head in his hands, sniffling echoed by the walls of his palms. He was starting to cry. Stan looked around, his eyes frantic for a solution he knew for certain he wouldn't be able to find anywhere in the rotten bark and crumpling rock that surrounded the quarry. He was completely and utterly lost. He had never come face to face with a problem like this, even with-- no-- ESPECIALLY with Richie. He was emotionally constipated 24/7, so Stan never talked to him about feelings unless he wanted to, and Richie never wanted to talk about things like feelings. He remembered Rich telling him that feelings were "gay" once, and even now, years later, Stan could feel the way his shoulders tensed as he shrugged in response to his childish remark-- not for or against it. Just perfectly neutral, as he always was, and always will be. Or so he thought.

He closed his eyes shut, knowing he would back out if he didn't. He could do this, no problem, he could do this. He let his instincts guide his hand over Bill's, hovering before connecting their fingertips. ABORT ABORT ABORT-- Stan tried to pull away, afraid to offend Bill-- What if he thought he was hitting on him (WHICH HE WAS NOT!!!) and decided to hate him forever? What if he laughed, called him a fruitcake, and then spit in his face? What if-- but then their hands fully intertwined; palm on palm. 

Stan stiffened, because for the first time in forever, he had no idea what he was going to do next. No next step. No precautionary plan-- Nothing. All he had was Bill, whose tears lined the corners of both his eyes, but never fell. He gave Stan's hand a little squeeze, and everything seemed alright again. Was it really ok that Stan didn't live 10 steps ahead of everyone else in this moment? Was it ok to just... live so carelessly like he was doing now? He leaned into Bill's touch, more than eager for some kind of answer, for some kind of sign that this was all ok... but never got his closure. 

The leaves on a bush rattled, and out popped a figure, emerging from the greenery like Godzilla from the ocean. Like waves, the overgrowth crashed around his legs, slithering twisting and swirling. The scene would have been almost angelic, as if a god had furrowed his chest and crossed the line from his world to theirs, but only if it wasn't Henry Bowsers standing in that very bush. 

"Thought i sniffed out a couple of queers", He looked down, eyeing their interlocked hands. Stan took back his hand almost immediately, feeling that once luke warm presence of body heat hungrily twist into the merciless heat of the Sahara desert. Bill looked over, but Stan did not dare to look back. All he could see the judging eyes of his attacker, his bully, his attacker, his witness. Henry saw him. No, Henry saw THEM. Stan exhaled, only for that same breath to come a full 180 and stick to his face. Henry would tell, Stan knew that much, Henry would tell and everyone would know and he'd be dead-- so very, very dead. Stan exhaled once more, only for that same thing to happen yet again. When did it get so hot out here?

"F-f-fuck o-fff-ff, B-buh-bowsers". Stan's attention snapped to Bill, what the hell? Did he really just say that? And to Henry Bowsers, of all people?

"What did you say?", Henry shot back, and Stan could hear the sound of his teeth grinding together even from where he stood. "W-W-What d-d-did y-y-y-you say?", he continued mockingly.

Stan looked around, up and down, and then finally, back to Henry. His hands were encrusted with something red. He inhaled, only to find that it wasn't blood. It was rust. The bike! The bike with the rust! It was his! How did i not recognize it? 

Just when Bill looked like he was about to back down, he picked up a rock, and threw it straight at Henry. It burrowed right above his left eye, sending him staggering backwards. He looked like he was about to fall, but regained his footing nevertheless. He plucked the rock from his forehead, rubbing his thumb against the blotches of red that covered the smooth surface. He looked at the rock, and then back at Bill and Stan.

"Oh you're so dead, Denbrough. And you too, Uris"

"R-R-Run!", Bill sputtered, but before Stan could make a move, Bill's hand found itself back into Stan's. He interlaced their fingers, but not in the ginger way he had before. This time it was rough, with purpose, with fear. He started to pull Stan into the directions of the bikes, Henry chasing after them with his fists clenched into tight, red balls.

Tall grass scraped at Stan's knees, but no matter how much the cuts hurt, and no matter how tired his legs got from the running, he followed Bill with care. They were halfway up the hill when Stan decided to glance back, just to see how far Henry had come along. His slim legs could carry him far, as Stan had come to find out, but he knew Bill and him were faster, because they were smarter, and they would outrun him if they just kept--

WHAM. All of a sudden, Stan could no longer see of of one eye. Something like tar covered it, his own person eclipse blinding him. Turns out, looking back was a really, really bad idea. Bill had thrown the first stone, so Henry had thrown the last. Uris's breath had become heavier, and his good eye drooped. He was finding it hard to keep up with Bill. The only thing keeping him going was Bill, who looked back, and with wide eyes, pulled Stan closer and kept running. Bad headache, bad knees, Stan wanted nothing more than a nap right now, but as Bill hoisted Stan up onto the back of his bike and started to pedal away, he found that not only was his head pounding, his heart was, too. 

"HI HO SILVER, AWAYYYY!", he heard Bill shout. His good eye no longer drooped-- Bill didn't stutter, not even once. His back-- broad for a boy of his age-- worked out of habitat, moving in precise, quick motions. Stan had noticed this once in passing, but it was a entirely different experience to be face to face-- or rather, face to back in a more logical sense-- with it. The wind howled past him, whipping him hair dangerously left and right, a few strands finding themselves trapped in the red tar that covered half his face. He let the stainless side of his cheek rest of Bill, on the verge of sleep or passing out he couldn't really decipher-- his thoughts were a massive train wreck-- but either way was fine by him.

"You can't run from me forever, Freaks!", Henry called, his harsh words carried by the even harsher winds. Stan didn't mind though, at least, not now he didn't. He would have his mental breakdown later. All he wanted to do right now was live in the present, with Bill. The wind cried, but Stan could not hear, as he was now fast asleep; his chin pressed gingerly into the back of Bill Denbrough.

When he woke up, Stan had found himself on the porch of Bill's house. His head was anchored between Bill's leg; propping him up so that Bill could clean the blood off Stan's face as he slept. Light spilled from one of the nearby archways, and Stan's good eye remained closed in discomfort. Even closed, with darkness coating the sun, he could see the tangy orange hues that waited eagerly for him to open his eyes, just so they could blind him. Nature was just so horrible sometimes, but Bill was even worse. He forced Stan's eye open with two of his fingers, looking in the way you would look through a telescope, "Hello? Anyone home?"

Stan kicked in the air, tossing and turning to get away from Bill's grip. "No! Go away!", he covered his eyes, "Screw you". Though he couldn't see it, he knew Bill was smiling, but in that gross, lovable, asshole, wonderful smug way he often did. Stan uncovered his eyes, and saw that his expectations turn into a reality. The rays above seemed to morph into loops around Bill; a halo bringing light to features Stan had never seen before. Messy bangs, a natural flush, and soft skin. Even his thighs were soft under the starchy fabric of his pants-- Stan would know. 

"So", Bill spoke. He drew his bottom lip in, wetting it before speaking again, "See you around?". Stan sat up, feeling Bill shifting beneath him. He got up, brushed off his jeans, and started to head towards the door. He looked back to his friend, who was still sitting on the uncomfortable concrete of his porch, and gave a little wave goodbye. As Bill cracked open the door, Stan saw him hesitate. There was chatter within the house, and along with it, sobs.

Parents.

Stan stood up almost instantly, remembering what Bill had told him at the quarry. 

"Wait", he reached out, his hand longing to touch Bill's again, but snatched it back as soon as he looked back. When Bill didn't respond, he drew in a breath, and continued, "Do you want to spend the night? At my house?"

He seemed surprised at first, and Stan's heart sunk. His thoughts were whirling around in his mind, a tornado that seemed to ruin everything and anything in it's path, but as soon as Bill smiled-- not smug, but a GENUINE smile-- the winds had settled and peace had been restored. "S-S-Sure. J-Just let me g-g-grab a f-few things real quick, o-ok?", and with that, Bill raced off, slamming the door shut behind him.

Stan watched that oak door, studying every curve and crease, even the little chips in the sides were the door was slammed against it's own hinges, and even though those dents and cracks were all very real and there, the only thing he could see was the outline of where Bill was, and the outline of where Bill would return. Even when he was away in the house, tucked up in his room as he flung shirts from piles and piles of clothes on the floor, looking for the right outfit to wear to Stan's, he was with Stan, always. He had left his mark on him, in both his hand and on his face. He reached up, touching the spot where Bill had labored for minutes on end cleaning up cuts that had littered Stan's face so carelessly. It was gone now, but it still felt gritty in some weird way Stan couldn't find it in him to explain.

"Y-You coming or w-w-what?", he heard a voice call. It sounded far away, and as Stan looked around, he saw Bill by his bike-- the same bike Stan had rode on the back off not long before. He had slipped past him in his day dreamy state, Stan assumed, but then he paused. When have i ever day dreamed? He shook his head, bringing him back to earth, and walked over to Bill. Bill scooted forward in his seat, allowing Stan to behind him. It was only in this moment that Stan had realized he had left his bike at the quarry, but as Bill began to pedal to his house, a place he was safe and loved, being driven to it by a person who made him feel safe and loved, he found that he didn't really mind. He'd go back for it in the morning, and hell, maybe Bill would come with him. Maybe if he did, they could finish the conversation they were having, maybe even hold hands again, watching as a turtle cloud floated by, and feeling at home in the quarry side by side.


End file.
